Shameless - Sybil Bartel Page 0,82

counter. “You got twelve steps or some shit like that you need to follow? You gonna freak out if I have another drink?”

Unsure if I hated his crudeness or appreciated it, I refrained from rolling my eyes. “I wasn’t an alcoholic, and I already told you not to patronize me. Have the damn bourbon.”

He eyed me a moment. Then he tipped the glass back and took a large gulp.

Tingles of awareness pricked over my skin and I thought about what his mouth would taste like if kissed me right now. Forcing the thought down, I glanced around his place but not a single furnishing suited him. All light grays and whites, everything was super modern and there wasn’t a single personal item anywhere. “How long have you lived here?”

His eyes on me, he took another swallow, but he didn’t say a word.

Oh my God. “Real mature ignoring me.”

“Says the nineteen-year-old who turned her back on me,” he stated flatly.

“Twenty,” I corrected, stretching the truth, wondering why the hell I was still standing here.

He snorted out a smirk. “Since when?”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t.”

Smarting at his callous remark, I told myself I didn’t give a damn what he did or didn’t care about. I hated myself for asking the stupid question in the first place. I didn’t need this shit. And I sure as hell didn’t need a Neanderthal alphahole who ran hot one minute, cold the next, and every shade of asshole in between.

Fuck this.

I turned to leave, but then I stopped myself and faced him. “You know what?” I didn’t wait for a reply, not that I was going get anything past the arrogant raising of one of his eyebrows. “You’re a fucking asshole. No wonder you’re alone at your age. Toddlers communicate better than you. I was stupid to even think we had a chance.”

“Yeah?” The already raised eyebrow rose higher. “A chance at what, sweetheart? Happily ever after?” he bit out sarcastically. “A white picket fence? Little trust fund babies running around calling Thomas gramps and wondering why their daddy is the same age as their fucking supermodel grandmother?”

Startled, I flinched.

Not because he said it, but because he’d thought about it.

He’d actually thought about having kids… with me. Summer Amherst. The spoiled, trust fund, ex junkie, rehab cliché fuck-up. And him. The war hero asshole.

I couldn’t help it.

I smiled.

Wide.

Then a giggle escaped and there was no stopping it. The ridiculousness of it all multiplied until I was clutching my stomach and tears were rolling down my face. I laughed my ass off.

All the while a Marine stood there with his drink in his hand and a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Holding one hand out, the other across my stomach, trying to catch my breath, I shook my head. “Wait.” A fresh wave erupted.

“For what?” he quipped sarcastically. “For you to lose your shit even more, so instead of a pickup at rehab, I’m dropping you off at the nearest psych ward?”

I laughed harder. “You… you…” Choking on the absurdity of the situation, I barely managed to get the words out. “You could call the Cowboy, Daddy.” I dissolved into a fit. Cry laughing, swiping at my face, trying to pull my shit together, I almost missed it.

Taking a sip of his whiskey, his expression changed.

Like the time on the side of the highway when I’d kissed him. Like the moment he’d let me touch him in his bedroom in the cabin. Like the second his gaze had landed on me under that cabin—his eyes darkened to an impossible shade of possessive dominance, and I knew all he saw was me.

He lifted his chin once. “You done?”

A rogue giggle escaped, and I nodded, but I had to slap my hands over my mouth to stop a fresh wave.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He set his drink down. “Get the fuck over here.”

I didn’t hesitate.

I walked toward him, and he did the most un-Shade thing I ever could’ve imagined.

He pulled me into his arms and hugged me tight. “I’m not fucking calling your stepmother, mom, and the Kid can suck my dick.”

Melting into his embrace, his warmth and spicy musk and sheer size making me feel safe, I smiled. “I’d rather he didn’t.”

Shade snorted out a half laugh. “So would he.”

My laughing fit past, I sobered. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

“I fucking hate apologies.” He pulled back just enough to look down at me. “That means shit went south. It means we said or did things we shouldn’t have.” His